


Deck the Halls

by consultingkaty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock makes amends, sexytimes ensue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:37:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingkaty/pseuds/consultingkaty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knows when he's wrong, and he knows how to make it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deck the Halls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucybun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucybun/gifts).



Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes could actually admit when he was wrong quite readily. He just seldom did so out loud. But now, in the privacy of an empty flat, Sherlock acknowledged that he had, in fact, screwed up. John was Not Happy and that was Not Good. More than a bit. It wasn't as though he had meant to upset his best (only) friend. It just happened. One minute John was flitting about the place, chattering happily about the decorations he'd passed on the way to Tesco's the other day. The next, Sherlock was offering what he felt was a reasonable discourse on the hypocritical nature of the holiday season, and its effects on crime. And the third, John was stomping out the door in a huff, on his way to a shift at the clinic, and fuming mightily. At Sherlock. 

So yes, Sherlock could certainly find enough evidence there to come to the reasonable conclusion that his actions were the root of John's pique. Fair enough. It was often the case. But it was particularly distressing when John's anger came so soon on the heels of John's almost child-like glee. John full of giggles and smiles and warmth was a thing that Sherlock cherished, even if he would seldom say so aloud. 

This left Sherlock with only one real avenue available. Fix it. Bring back John's happiness. And if absurd Christmas trapping were what had put John in such a jolly good mood to begin with, then by God, Christmas trappings John would have. 

Which is how, seven hours later, John came home to a flat that smelled suspiciously like a cinnamon coated forest, to find a fresh spruce that barely fit in the living room fully decorated, more fairy lights than a workshop full of elves would have known what to do with all twinkling merrily, and garlands tacked to virtually every available surface--including Sherlock's bison skull wall art, as well as his music stand. And unless John's eyes were deceiving him, Billy the household skull was in a Santa hat. With jingle bells. And in the middle of it all, lay Sherlock. Curled up on the couch, fast asleep, the only sign that the consulting detective had moved at all since John left was the trail of gold glitter that swept up one lofty cheekbone and into his dark shock of curls. Gold glitter that matched that on several dozen glass balls scattered about the tree and garlands.

John couldn't help the smile that passed over his lips as the tension and frustration of the day gave way to warmth and fondness. Sherlock was still impossible, and an absolute handful, and could try the patience of a saint, but buried deep down under all of his bad habits and utterly monstrous social skills, lay a good man with a kind heart. John considered himself to be among the luckiest of men for being granted the opportunity to truly know Sherlock in ways no one else did, and this was certainly one of them. 

For a moment, John considered waking Sherlock--he would end up throwing out his back one of these days, sleeping on the sofa like that. On the other hand, Sherlock slept so rarely that John was loath to disturb him when he finally gave in to the demands of his body for rest. Mind made up, John grabbed the tartan thrown off the back of his chair and brought it over to cover the younger man. Satisfied that he would at least stay warm and be marginally more comfortable, John reached out and gently brushed a hand over one glitter-dusted cheekbone. Quicksilver eyes squinted open at his touch.

"John?" It was a strange habit of Sherlock's, John had noticed. He always wanted to know where his companion was upon waking. No matter how obvious the answer, especially now that the answer was almost always beside him, he still asked. 

"Here," John answered, kneeling down beside the sofa and ignoring the way his knees protested. "Did you--you did all of this, didn't you?" he asked, gesturing around him.

"Obviously," Sherlock snorted as he sat up. With a roll of his eyes, he reached down and tugged John up to sit beside him. 

"Why?"

Sherlock never understood why John did that. John, so normal, yet so utterly different. Delightfully unpredictable John. Yet, he would look around, see all of the evidence laid bare before him, and look to Sherlock as though _he_ was the variable component in their relationship. Like _Sherlock_ was the one full of mysteries and puzzles. Sherlock never understood, so instead he humored John. Only John. "Because you wanted it."

"I--wanted--"John flapped his hands, then pointed to the tree. "I wanted the Tree of Gondor?" He shook his head, incredulously.

"The tree of what?" Sherlock eyed the tree suspiciously. The salesman at the lot had assured him it was a natively grown spruce, and Sherlock was more than confident that he could recognize a _Picea abies_ when he saw one. 

"Lord of the--never mind," John chuckled. "It's, well, I didn't know I wanted that. Or that," he said, pointing to Billy. 

"Of course you did," the 'don't be ridiculous, John' mercifully went unspoken. "You were quite excited about the pomp and circumstance of Christmas this morning. You mentioned a trip to Tesco's. You just did the shopping the day before yesterday. We aren't in need of any food or supplies at the moment. When I failed to share your sentiments, you became noticeably upset. The more I spoke, the more angry you became. Conclusion: you are not only fond of Christmas and it's rituals as a passive observer, you were planning to decorate the flat with items you saw the last time you were at Tesco's. You incorrectly interpreted my lack of matching enthusiasm as refusal to allow such activities in my home." 

"I, well, yes," John conceded. "But how we get from that to this," again John waved his hands at the room at large, "I don't know."

Sherlock sighed, but before he could explain further, John stopped him with a gentle kiss. "Did I say 'know'? I meant 'care'." This time, Sherlock had time only to smile before John's lips were on his again. 

With firm hands, John nudge Sherlock until he was once more reclined on the sofa, with John hovering above him, a hairsbreadth away. "You're wonderful. Mad, but wonderful." 

Sherlock could feel the words--felt the puffs of air as they formed--and he believed them. For John. Only John. Surging forward, he toppled John over onto his back, and with a bit of awkward squirming, managed to get his legs back under him so that he could crawl forward and cover John's smaller body with his own long frame. Dipping low, he dragged the length of his torso along John's chest, thrilling at the feeling of his sensitive nipples raking against the wool of John's jumper even through the silk of his own shirt. He brought his mouth down to nip teasingly at the patch of skin behind John's ear, delighting in the shiver it invoked as he reached down and tugged John's shirt tails free from his jeans, then slid his hands under the shirt to travel along John's warm stomach and chest. "Want you," he purred in his lover's ear. The answering moan shot straight to Sherlock's cock, which was already straining within the confines of his tailored trousers. 

John managed to dislodge Sherlock enough to sit up and fumbled for his belt as Sherlock did the same with his own. The moment his hands were free again, John reached for Sherlock, grabbing his hips and pulling him in close for another heated kiss. Lips parted and tongues met again and again as both men fell into their shared desire. When they eventually parted, both were breathless and Sherlock had managed to wriggle a hand into John's trousers, though he had yet to make it past his pants. 

"Here," John canted his hips just enough to slide both trousers and pants over his bum, exposing his aching cock to Sherlock, who hurried to do the same. Sherlock crawled forward to hook his legs around John's thighs, straddling him just below his hips. The first rock of his hips stole a whimpered "yes" from Sherlock and a shuddering groan from John.

"Fuck, Sherlock," John gasped as he wrapped a hand around both their erections, relishing the sensation of the his cock sliding against his lover's in the tight grasp of his fist. He tore his gaze away from the sight of their cocks to see Sherlock lapping at the palm of his hand like a cat, a knowing smirk brightening his eyes. Then he too, reached down and added his hand beneath John's and together they moved. Palms slid and hips thrust, cocks fucked and bodies arched. John reached around to run a hand down the full curve of Sherlock's ass, one finger teasing it's way along his crack. Sherlock squirmed against him, trying to thrust forward and backwards at once, and the movement sent a throbbing pulse through John's cock. "Christ, Sherlock, come one. For me, Sherlock, come on--" 

Sherlock watched, fascinated as John's breathing became shallower, and his tempo sped up, dragging Sherlock closer to the edge along with him. "So close. John, yesss..."

And then he was there. Groaning his orgasm in a sinfully broken call of John's name. Beneath him, John shuddered as the sight and sound of his lover's orgasm triggered his own and he thrust up one last time, adding his cum to Sherlock's. 

Eventually, John came back down from his post-sex high enough to bat lazily at Sherlock who still lay sprawled atop him. "Oiy, get up." 

Sherlock cracked open one eye to glare more effectively than most people could manage with both eyes open. "No."

"Yes," John retorted. "You heavy, you're sweaty, and your sticky. And glittery." 

"Glitter--" Sherlock trailed off. "Oh! From the--ah. John." He finally pushed himself off of John and stood, naked, sweaty, sticky and glittery. "I am sorry. For earlier. It was...it wasn't good..." 

John smiled at the mad man he loved, blundering through as only he could manage and yet somehow getting it right as always. "Come have a bath with me?" He stood and walked to the bathroom. He didn't bother turning to see if Sherlock would follow. There was no need.


End file.
